


until the day breathes and the shadows flee

by marcaskane (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, This is NOT a fix-it fic, this is a continued pining even an ambiguous amount of time later fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/marcaskane
Summary: By the light of day, her love passes.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	until the day breathes and the shadows flee

_Upon my bed at night_

_I sought him whom my soul loves;_

_I sought him, but found him not;_

_I called him, but he gave no answer._

(Song of Solomon 3:1 New Revised Standard Version)

* * *

By the light of day, her love passes.

Gradually, she falls into bed with other men, and even more gradually, she falls into… something, with one or two. Love, maybe. It sure as hell aches like love.

_I think you know how to love better than any of us. That’s why you find it all so painful._

She doesn’t step into the priest’s church, or any other church, for that matter, but every so often, she finds herself in a sort of thoughtful meditation that he might have called prayer. She doesn’t mind—it’s not bad, seeing his fingerprints on her life when she needs to breathe through a rude customer at the café; a stressful confrontation with Stepmother; painful memories of her mother and Boo.

Yes. Her love passes.

It’s in the wee small hours that she still feels him with her. Not every night, and less and less with time, but _oh_ , does he linger there.

Perhaps she should have anticipated this, and she suspects that, on some level, she did. He left her at the bus stop that night, and in turn, she left all her preconceived notions of her life following any sort of coherent path.

Not the sense that she could grow and change. No. But the sense that she could truly, honestly fall out of love?

Oh, yes.

How could she, when she lies in the dark – the dark, where he’d caressed her in the confessional booth and untied her coat to reveal her skin, soft and eager for his touch – and it is as though he only just pressed a thousand kisses to her lips and breasts, only just loosened his grip on her neck and waist.

Standing in her sitting room, he’d suggested, exasperated, that she knew everything she wanted. Lurking behind that was another accusation—that, in her wanting him, he was powerless to stop her from taking him. That he was giving into an inevitability that she had designed.

But he left her at the bus stop that night.

And there, on her body, his love for her remains inscribed.

_I’m always there._

Her love passes.

But sometimes, in the wee small hours, she makes herself come and a plaintive _Father_ still falls from her lips.


End file.
